


Just Dinner

by Guede



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Cooking Lessons, Figo Is A Massive Troll, First Dates, Humor, M/M, Phone Calls & Telephones, Spanish National Team, Teamwork
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:20:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27444769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guede/pseuds/Guede
Summary: Mission Dinner is a team success.
Relationships: Cesc Fàbregas/David Silva
Kudos: 2





	Just Dinner

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LiveJournal in 2011. Set vaguely after the four El Clásicos of the 2010-11 La Liga season and before everyone went on vacation.

“Yeah, no, seriously, we should’ve done it way before this but…yeah…totally…” Cesc rounded his couch and then flopped down on it without looking behind him. He slightly misjudged how long and wide it was and his right leg slid off, but quick reflexes and long practice meant he automatically shoved his right foot out so that it hit the edge of the coffee table, bracing him in place. “…no kidding. So I guess like, nine? Oh, wait, sorry, you haven’t lived here that long—no? Really? Nine’s not too early for dinner for you? Okay, great! See you then.”

After he turned off his phone, Cesc stretched back and gazed at the ceiling without looking at anything in particular. He wore a faint but distinctly pleased expression that almost erased the deep furrow grooving across his forehead a little above the brows. The expression wasn’t frozen, but instead changed by gradual degrees: first the corners of his mouth crept up, and then they straightened. Then they tipped downwards into a decided frown.

Cesc looked back at the phone in his hand, the screen of which had gone dark from lack of activity. He thumbed it back to life and then dialed, muttering to himself when his sloppy digit made him correct the number. Then he put the phone to his ear, and at the same time levered himself up with his free arm. His right foot lost its perch on the coffee-table, but this time it was due not only to carelessness, but also to haste. The limb to which it was attached swung wildly in the air, its momentum dragging along the rest of Cesc’s body; too late, Cesc’s face registered a dawning horror.

* * *

“Hel—” David Villa grimaced and held the phone away from his ear as a cacophony of thumps, screeches and other unpleasant noises emitted from it. He checked the caller ID, transmuted his grimace to a puzzled frown, and gingerly put the phone back against his head. “Cesc?”

The bangs and yelps had stopped, but a soft moaning could be heard. Followed by a string of Catalan curses, and then one sharp whack. *Guaje? Hey, it’s Cesc.*

“Uh, yes?” Which response should not be taken, in any way, to indicate the degree or the quality of intelligence that Villa possessed. He was in truth distracted—he had just spotted something odd on his brand-new sneakers. Something horribly dark. Something…that was just an abnormally large piece of lint, which he flicked away with a heartfelt sigh of relief. Then he blinked, remembering something. “Sorry, what?”

*I said, what does David like to eat?* Cesc sighed. *What, is Geri fucking around there again?*

“No, he’s…come to think of it, I haven’t seen him for a while.” Hard-earned, if relatively recent, instinct made Villa immediately clutch his shoes to himself and then put his hand halfway into his jeans-pockets before yanking them straight out. He paused, then felt over the _outside_ of the pockets before testing the contents with the handle of his brush. Which meant he needed the use of both hands, and thus that he had to pinch his phone between his ears, and _thus_ that he accidentally hung up on Cesc.

Fifty seconds later Villa was convinced of two things: one, that his street clothing was safe, and two, that it was a damn good thing Cesc had his vacation coming up because clearly the long English season had been getting to him.

*…answer a simple question?* Cesc finished angrily.

“What question?” Villa asked. Quite sensibly, he thought, since he didn’t know it and couldn’t read minds.

Cesc moaned again. *Oh, my God. Silva. Need to feed him.*

“Oh, he’s fine,” Villa snorted, more than a little relieved. He’d been beginning to think it would be something difficult. “Look, you survived on the, the pork pie or whatever. I know he went further north, and maybe they can’t even have pigs up there with the winter weather, but he’s from the Canaries, they’re tough out—”

*What does he _eat_?* Cesc hissed.

Villa thought for a moment. “Food?”

Cesc hung up on him.

* * *

Thankfully, the Internet was a vast and wonderful resource. Cesc drew on that and his own experience of moving to a strange new country, and on his ability to pay attention to details, such as that he’d been fortunate enough to have had regular home-cooking even after moving to London but David probably hadn’t . Based on that, Cesc cracked his knuckles, pulled up the browser on his computer, and emailed his mother.

After that he went out for an errand. When he came back, his mother had sent back an apology that she really wasn’t that familiar with Canarian cuisine. She also had cc’ed his sister, who sent him a smug little email about how to work a search engine. He would’ve phoned her right up except she’d also sent him some links to recipe sites that looked interesting.

Five minutes of browsing and he had to get up and get something to eat. Once that was taken care of, Cesc came back and started to make his plans. He even made a spreadsheet, which was more than his sister could do. Lists of ingredients he had and ones he didn’t, and…ones that were going to require expert skills. He had more phone calls to make.

* * *

“Hmm, sure, I can get you that. I was just going up into the mountains anyway, so good timing. But…do you really need that many mushrooms?” Xavi shifted his phone to his other ear so he could tie his shoelaces. “Okay, if you say so. It’s just going to be a giant box, I hope you know. But the other thing, yeah, I’m sorry, but I have no idea. Umm…who would?”

* * *

Pep was very quiet for a while. It couldn’t have been because he was upset at Xavi, because Xavi had asked him straight off if it was a good time because if it wasn’t, it was the kind of thing that could wait. So maybe he hadn’t heard Xavi right, or the connection was bad or something like that.

*No, I heard you the first time,* Pep said, interrupting Xavi’s attempt to repeat Cesc’s question. *It’s only…I’m afraid I don’t know myself. But I might know someone who does.*

* * *

Luís paused. Then he put down his suitcase and stared into it. “Pep. Honestly. You know and I know exactly who would know, and if you don’t have his number you know who to ask for it.”

*It’s not that easy!* A faint trace of mulishness—which most people would have characterized as surprising given the speaker—had entered Pep’s voice. *Look, you know how it is right now. There have been enough words already and enough nastiness, and I don’t want to give them any more excuses to—*

Luís Figo, it was safe to say, was not ‘most people.’ “You didn’t have any problem with me and that was right _after_ the match. And involved a good deal more than just picking up a phone.”

Pep muttered something. It might have been along the lines of ‘thatwasdifferentIhateyouthisismyofficeI’mblushingin.’

“All right, all right,” Luís sighed. “I’ll call him and give him Cesc’s number.” He paused. “If we can patronize a certain spot in a certain place that you’ve always conveniently denied exists.”

*You’re blackmailing me. Over a simple favor. Really, Luís?*

“I _won_ that bet, Pep.” Luís resumed packing his beach clothes. “And besides, I know that it’s not merely a simple favor. It’s a chance to further the well-being of the next generation, which is so central to continuous improvement. Without them, we would never move forward.”

Pep inhaled sharply, in a manner that clearly announced a sarcastic reply.

Luís rolled his eyes. “Or else I’ll tell Fernando. And I might never forget, but he’s never going to get over it. And do you really want to do that to him? To that poor man who’s already taken so much unnecessary abuse simply for standing up for what he believed, and not just for his club but also his country—”

*I _hate_ you.* A long, pregnant silence. *And you’re just doing this to be contrary.*

“No, I’m doing it because I did always like the idea of you in pure white,” Luís said.

Pep hung up on him. Luís zipped up his suitcase, and when he was done, his phone was ringing. He grinned and picked it up, and asked Pep what time he had in mind.

“The next generation of footballers will forever be in your debt,” Luís said to Pep’s answer. Of course Pep hung up on him again, but that was just as well. Luís needed to make another call.

* * *

“Well, I didn’t think it’d take this long for somebody to get back to me!” Cesc said strongly. He did not yelp. He merely expressed his emotions, and at the moment, those happened to be deeply shaken and fearful.

It had started out well enough. He’d made use of his contacts to ensure that the difficult ingredients would find their way to his door and then had set about gathering up the easy-to-find ones. The actual shopping went off without a hitch, but then he had returned home and had begun to unpack. Starting with the bundle from the fishmonger’s, at which he had to admit that he hadn’t been paying as much attention as he could have. He’d been slightly distracted by some texts from Silva asking if anyone else was coming.

And then he had returned home. He’d been unpacking all the jars and bags and paper-wrapped bundles when his phone had rang. Not wanting to stop and let the perishables spoil, Cesc had answered with one hand and tugged at wrapping-paper with the other, and the last, largest bundle had precipitously unrolled on him to let a giant, bug-eyed fish flop onto his counter with its little gaping mouth aimed right at him. 

The phone was urgently speaking to him. “I just sent you a photo!” Cesc snapped. “I got—what? What do you mean, I got the wrong kind?”

* * *

Aitor Karanka had had ample warning before he’d taken his current job that he might be called upon to carry out some strange tasks. He was a careful man and had done his research, and had decided that the educational aspect would very likely outweigh any reservations he might have, and hadn’t regretted his choice since. Nor did he regret it now, since this had absolutely nothing to do with his job. Sometimes he disliked his friends. “Don’t panic, it’s not a fatal mistake.”

“What happened?” Iker asked, an oddly eager gleam in his eye. He pulled at Aitor’s elbow. When Aitor twisted away, cupping one hand over the phone, Iker threw an arm over Aitor’s shoulder and tried to lift himself onto Aitor’s back. “What’d he fuck up? Cesc, Cesc, don’t forget—oof. Goddamn it, Aitor.”

“Goddamn it yourself,” Aitor muttered, trying to resist the urge to elbow Iker. He’d known and cherished the man as a friend for years, but he also had honestly believed that Iker had grown out of his bratty stage. “Fàbregas? Look, it’s fine, it’ll taste a little different but basically you have the same dish. Just remember to take out the bloodline or it’ll be too fishy.”

Iker threw both his arms around Aitor’s neck. “Bloodline?” he grunted.

Fortunately, Aitor hadn’t allowed retirement to dim certain reflexes. He ducked and twisted, and the moment he was free of the other man, he dove for the door. “Well, when you gut it,” he told an increasingly edgy-sounding Fàbregas. “No, you have to. And probably should do it now or else it’ll go…yes, that means you have to take out the guts—damn it, Iker—it’s not that bad, just start by slitting the belly—Iker, for _God’s_ sake.”

“It’s my phone!” Iker finally relinquished his attempts to crawl vertically all over Aitor and crossed his arms over his chest. His lower lip appeared to be protruding unnecessarily. “And I could be using it now myself, but instead I’m generously lending it to you to call Cesc so that nobody ends up thinking you’re calling as assistant coach to tap up Arsenal’s best player and an ex-Barça _cantera_ product that they really, really want back. If I’m going to take the rap, then I damn well get to eavesdrop.”

*…going everywhere! Oh, my God that is so gross what do I do where do I put them what’s the bloodline did I get it yet I don’t care it’s just icky help help help…*

Aitor put his hand over his eyes. “I need a moment, Cesc.” He moved his hand to cover the phone again and stared at Iker. “Since when?”

“Since…since—since the days of Hierro, that’s when,” Iker said stubbornly. “And you know it too.” Iker hunched up his shoulders. His voice managed to simultaneously rise in pitch and take on gravelly notes as he approximated a horrendous Andalusian accent. “‘I take the bullshit because I’m the captain but first I want to know what the bullshit is. So tell me what you did before I put you over my knee and take a shoe to your miserable little ass, you whiny ungrateful baby who’s been a complete disgrace to this incredibly old and…and highly-decorated…honorable…he’s standing behind me, isn’t he?”

Aitor nodded. He saw a glint appear in Fernando’s eye just before Fernando swung a friendly, irresistible arm around Iker’s shoulders.

“Aren’t we having lunch?” Fernando asked in a pleasantly inquisitive voice. He’d let his whole body follow through on the swing, amplifying its momentum so that Iker had no choice but to spin out into the hall with him. “I’m sorry I’m late, Iker, but we’d better go to make our reservation before the bullshit shows up. Have a good afternoon, Aitor. I’ll bring him back for the phone.”

“Enjoy your lunch.” Not being a particularly malicious man, Aitor didn’t indulge in any sort of gloating or uncharitable behavior like that. He merely gave Iker’s pleading, terrified eyes a happy wave and then put the phone back to his ear.

*…it’s staring at me! I just disemboweled it, why is it so sad? Oh, my God, I can’t do this.*

Aitor sighed. “Cesc. Pick up the knife and cut off its head.”

* _What_? I can’t do that. It’s _staring_ at me. With its _fishy eyes_.*

All right, Aitor did think he deserved a lunch once in a while. If Fernando hadn’t been so distracted with certain members of rival clubs under the pitiful excuse that he wanted better relations, then Aitor never would have had the issue of getting rid of certain inconvenient items of evidence and Figo wouldn’t have any grounds for blackmail. Aitor did love to cook but why everyone thought that also meant he’d love patiently explaining how to do it to complete hysterical idiots…he was a nice man. He was a nice man. He was going teach Cesc how to clean a fish, and then he was going to kill everybody from that Real team as soon as he got off the phone.

“You can do it. Now, pick up the knife. Pick up the fish. Put the knife in the gills, and push hard. You might hear a crunch, but that’s fine. That’s just the backbone.”

* * *

Eventually Cesc emerged from that dark, dank, terrible haze and got the fish into the pot and a roasting pan. He promptly clapped a lid on the pot while his mind was still far too traumatized to question how one thing could go in two places, and then he turned his attentions to happier things.

Larger things. Giant overnight-delivery boxes with air-holes things. The box said Xavi had sent it, but personally, Cesc had his doubts.

Twenty texts and one very bemused phone call to Barcelona later, Cesc reluctantly had to admit that Xavi had sent it. And that it contained his mushrooms. He still wasn’t quite certain as to those air-holes. But he was nothing if not determined to see this through, and moreover, he wasn’t without certain resources of his own.

Equipped with thick gloves, a pair of boots old enough that he didn’t mind if the spikes were stomped flat or they got covered in gore, and various assorted heavy objects for protection purposes, Cesc tackled the box. He handled tape, string, more tape, the most counterintuitive arrangement of flaps he’d ever encountered, and more tape. Then the moment of truth arrived, and with the aid of a pair of leftover take-out chopsticks, Cesc gingerly lifted the last flap and looked inside.

Well, it was alive. In a manner of speaking.

_Better when fresh_ , Xavi texted back. _Pick off when need some._

Cesc looked at his phone, then at the mushroom-covered log in the box. Then back at the phone. He’d gotten a new text.

_Water 2x day. Indirect sun. No chem._

Cesc sighed. At least that dish was next on his prep list.

* * *

David Silva knocked again, then checked his watch. He knew he had the day right, and the time, so…he’d really liked the fact that most people in England showed up on time. He might be Spanish but the whole lack of punctuality thing had always driven him up the wall, and that was a little bit of home he could do without. Even though it was really nice of Cesc to have him over and offer him some home-style food without them having to go to some fancy restaurant and dodge paparazzi and—he looked up, startled.

Cesc ripped the door nearly off its hinges, and then was damn lucky it hadn’t fallen off with how he slumped against it. “Oh, _shit_ , you’re here,” he said.

“Um…yeah?” David said. “You said I could come.”

“Yeah— _yeah_. Shit, um, I’m really glad you could make it and come in, make yourself at home…ignore the smell, okay?” As Cesc waved David in, arm slapping the air, he let out a weird little giggle. “It’s actually a lot better than it smells. And the smoke doesn’t mean anything either.”

David came in and then registered what Cesc was saying. And the smoke cloud that had just set off the alarm. “Okay.”

“Shit!” Cesc ran off somewhere.

Not the kitchen, since after he threw off his coat, David ambled back there. Half a delicious dinner was sitting on the counter, and it looked like the other half had caught fire in the oven. He cracked open the oven door, then shoved it back as a little flame licked out at him. Whistling lowly, he rummaged around in the cabinets till he found some flour. He got the bag open, then pulled down the oven door long enough to shake a giant heap of flour over the flames. Oven door shut, ten seconds, and he opened it just as Cesc came in, cursing and praying and kinda eeping when he saw David.

“Fire’s out.” David glanced around. “Oh, you got the alarm?”

“Uh, yeah.” Cesc flushed and scratched his head. “I’m so sorry you walked in on this mess.”

“No problem, I just can’t believe you’re cooking yourself. I thought we were gonna get takeout or something,” David said.

Mumbling something about wanting to make David feel at home and it not being a big deal, lessons from his mother, whatever, Cesc began moving plates and jars around on the counter like it helped with his amazingly red face. Then he paused as his hand hit a paper bag. He looked at it, frowned, and then picked it up and looked inside.

“You don’t bring wine for take-out,” Cesc said.

David shrugged. “Hey, do you need a reason for wine?”

Cesc continued to stare into the bag. He twisted it slightly, probably reading the label. “This is really _nice_ wine.”

“Well, it looks like a really nice dinner, so maybe I was just anticipating,” David said, coming over.

“Oh, _anticipat—_ ” Then Cesc shut up because David was kissing him.

After a couple of minutes, David spared his hands from Cesc’s backside so he could move the wine back to the counter. It _was_ good stuff, and if they didn’t need it this time he might as well save it for later.

They relocated to the living room where it didn’t smell so burnt. Cesc had a nice couch anyway, lots of width, good cushioning, took having clothes shoved into its cracks pretty well. And Cesc looked pretty good on it. Even if he kept talking so he was going to bite David’s tongue if he didn’t watch it.

“It’s just I went through so much trouble,” Cesc said, slightly breathless.

“Yeah, I heard,” David mumbled, trying to figure out hoodies. “Half the fucking national team’s waiting to hear back.”

Cesc went still, and David silently cursed to himself. Usually he thought he had the witty humor down, but occasionally he still turned into some awkward twerp who couldn’t let a good thing be. He was on the verge of apologizing when Cesc snorted.

“Fucking gossips,” he said, shoving his hand down the front of David’s jeans. “It’s just dinner.”

“Yep,” David said into Cesc’s mouth, which wasn’t talking anymore.

* * *

Text sent approximately two hours later: _App 1 Entree 0 Side 1 Dessert 1 – 2-1 aggregate u losers_.

**Author's Note:**

> Aitor Karanka has a chef brother and considers cooking one of his hobbies. Xavi really does pick mushrooms in his spare time, David Silva hates people who are late and Iker has done Hierro impressions on TV.


End file.
